Three teens navigate the early morning fog, approaching an abandoned sanitorium.
"How can you not know who Jerry Rice is?" This is Farah, a tall black girl with dark purple highlights that run through her braids. "He's only, like, the greatest wide receiver ever."
Trevor doesn't think it's that shocking, but he agrees anyway: "Yeah, I'm not even that into football and I know who he is." This has nothing to do with the secret crush he has on Farah. Honest.
Michele is the shortest, oldest, and (if you ask her) smartest of the trio. She's a stocky girl with dirty blonde hair and a pair of glasses that look like something a librarian would wear in a 1970s porno. They're a deliberate choice. "Look, do either of you know who Radagast is?"
"Radagast? Who's he play for?" Farah knows damn well who he is, but she can't resist poking a little fun at Michele's presumption that she doesn't.
Trevor quickly provides an assist: "Radagast the Brown."
"Oh. No wonder I don't know him. He plays for the Browns."
Michele rolls her eyes far enough to peer into the interior of her skull. As they reach the sanitorium's back door, she swings her backpack around in front of her feet, then starts rummaging. "My point being, you know stuff you're into, y'know? I'm not into football, so I don't know who Jerry Rice is. And if someone's not into Lord of the Rings, maybe they don't know who Radagast the Brown is." She pulls out her lock-picks and goes to work on the padlock.
"Okay, but everybody still knows who Gandalf is," Farah counters.
Trevor contemplates what Farah is saying: "So… Jerry Rice is to football as Gandalf is to Lord of the Rings?"
Farah folds her arms. "Yeah. That's what I'm saying. Jerry Rice is the Gandalf of football."
The padlock snaps open. Michele stands, turns, and glares at Farah. She opens her mouth to respond. After several seconds of silence, her mouth closes.
Finally, the glare melts. Michele slumps in defeat. "Okay, yeah. I've got noth —"
A cracked and desiccated hand lunges out from the door and
02-JAN-2017 | Page 15 |
VIDCAST TRANSCRIPT
(THE NERVE CENTER WITH ZACHARY CALLAHAN)
in regards to Samothrace. At least, as far as we know.
CALLAHAN: Let's move away from international politics for a moment and focus on you.
ANDERSON: (smiling) My favorite subject.
[Studio laughter.]
CALLAHAN: You're a giant in paratechnology. From your work with DARPA in neuroprosthetics, to your line of Peregrine drones, your company has revolutionized the field of robotics.
ANDERSON: Mm.
CALLAHAN: But now we have this, this anti-paratech bill in Congress — a bill to regulate an industry in no need of regulation. Pushed by these 'neo-luddite' activists —
ANDERSON: Mm. Well, I wouldn't —
CALLAHAN: — like Aaron Howell. And Foundation globalists, lobbyists like Sasha Merlo. And I have to ask.
ANDERSON: — wouldn't call them luddites.
CALLAHAN: I have to ask. How can we expect America to remain the leader in paratechnology if we keep letting the Foundation dictate what we can and can't do?
ANDERSON: Well... First, I need to clear the air.
CALLAHAN: Oh?
02-JAN-2017 | Page 15 |
VIDCAST TRANSCRIPT
(THE NERVE CENTER WITH ZACHARY CALLAHAN)
ANDERSON: Sasha and I have a, shall we say, 'history'. Oh, (laughing) nothing sordid, I assure you. Though I'm certain the tabloids will have a field-day dreaming something up. They so love their headlines.
CALLAHAN: We've all been there.
ANDERSON: I also want to point out the amount of good the Foundation has done. It's been a little over a decade since the Blue Bloom, and what have we seen? Fields of strawberries in Chernobyl. Containing the Deepwater Horizon spill. A repleted ozone layer —
CALLAHAN: Sure. But then there's the Portlands incident, the SS Sommerfeld, Tau-5 —
ANDERSON: — revitalizing the world's aging telecommunication networks —
CALLAHAN: — and I've even heard there's a task-force dedicated to investigating your company.
ANDERSON: (laughing) 'Asimov's Law-Bringers'. It's rather flattering, actually.
CALLAHAN: Don't you think this is all a bit much? Hasn't the Foundation gone too far?
ANDERSON: That's just it, Zachary. The Foundation isn't beholden to any master besides the Foundation. And they've had a monopoly on paratechnology for so long — how are small privately owned businesses like mine supposed to compete?
CALLAHAN: Exactly. It's a monopoly. Exactly.
02-JAN-2017 | Page 16 |
VIDCAST TRANSCRIPT
(THE NERVE CENTER WITH ZACHARY CALLAHAN)
ANDERSON: That's why Congress needs to vote down this bill — so the US can stay on the cutting edge of —
CALLAHAN: Exactly. We can't restrict innovators, job-creators like yourself.
ANDERSON: — of paratechnology. But if I had to say one thing to Ms. Merlo and those in Congress who support her, it would be this.
[ANDERSON turns to the camera.]
ANDERSON: There is no going back. Once the wheels of progress start to turn, nothing will slow them down. All you can do is come along for the ride... or get out of the way.
CALLAHAN: Wise words. Thank you for your time, Mr. Anderson.
ANDERSON: Always a pleasure, Zachary.
CALLAHAN: Alright, ladies and gentlemen. That was Vincent Anderson, CEO of Anderson Robotics. Next up on The Nerve Center, we'll be interviewing John Stamos regarding his role on the set of Living with Lupes — and his thoughts on the shocking season finale. Stay tuned!
Six children float in the water. Their unblinking eyes and untubated mouths are obscured beneath featureless black hoods.
They are arranged in a tightly clustered circle, placed at the center of an indoor swimming pool. A dense imbroglio of wires and tubes connect them to a small buoy that bobs between them. This buoy contains a rudimentary life support system. With each hiss, it squeezes a nitrogen-rich mixture of oxygen and nitrous oxide into their lungs. Secondary tubing coils into their mouths, providing them with a steady trickle of synthetic mescaline and propofol — absorbed sublingually.
The interior of the hoods control each child's senses. They are bombarded with a stream of visual, aural, olfactoral, and tactile cognitohazards which induce disassociation. A low-resolution electroencephalogram reads their neural activity, then adjusts the flow of air, anesthesia, and sensory data as necessary. This suppresses thought and maintains a fuge state.
The temperature, composition, and even motion of the swimming pool is tightly controlled. Bright lights, sounds, and digital devices are prohibited. All but one of the chamber's six entrances have been barricaded beneath several feet of concrete reinforced with steel — then plated with urethane-foam paneling.
The only remaining entrance requires a key-card, pin number, and retina scan to pass. It's guarded by three armed men with orders to shoot first and ask questions never. They are supported by a remotely operated.50 caliber sentry turret. Shaped charges can be detonated to collapse the entire structure, killing or otherwise trapping everyone inside.
Dr. Hamid Rostami steps through the security checkpoint, rubs the bridge of his nose, then sighs. This used to be a highschool.
The small town of Darrington, North Carolina was abandoned at some point in 1961. Its obscurity, remote location, and relatively intact modern infrastructure makes it perfect for the Osworth Institute's purposes. Ostensibly demolished, the town was a 'gift' from Myrmidon International's 'mysterious benefactor'. Its many buildings have been retrofitted for the Institute's use.
- Speak to Me: We introduce Alex, Machine-Head, Sunny, and Seph. They've just escaped Osworth Institute, driving a stolen car modified by Machine-Head. The mysterious (and terrifying) Mr. Crimson is shown in pursuit.
- Breathe: Flashback to Alex arriving at Osworth. Having a panic attack in her cell, but Shea helps calm her down with breathing exercises. Back in present, Alex repeats the same exercise with Machine-Head after they have a freak-out. They realize that Machine-Head needs insulin. They decide to steal from a clinic, approaching it in the distance. An officer finds their stolen car; after he reports it, Mr. Crimson appears.
- On the Run: Flashback to Labrats escaping Osworth, ending with Shea being killed by Mr. Crimson (after she tells Alex to run). The clinic robbery ends with the police showing up, only for Mr. Crimson to show up and toss them aside. Alex, enraged, tells the others to run — she takes on Mr. Crimson, but is outclassed (he's far angrier, and has no friends to hold him back). Her friends grab her. They run.
- Time: We open with the text prompt we used previously (simplified, reduced). Alex wakes up to find herself in the back of a pickup truck, still recovering. They hitched a ride with an old man who they've (apparently) told the truth (adding in that they're superheroes on the run, like in the news). They arrive at his cabin, where they relax while Alex recovers. Machine-Head and Sunny have their moment. During dinner, Seph laughs.
- The Great Gig in the Sky: It's been a day. Alex wakes up from a dream where Shea kisses her. She starts to have a panic attack, but forces a bolt of lightning out instead — lighting the bed on fire. The old man arrives, she apologizes and they clean up. It comes up that the others want to have a funeral for Shea, but Alex isn't going to attend. She points out a funeral won't bring her back. The old man points out funerals aren't for the dead, they're for the living — and the living need her. He leaves, and she finally breaks down and cries, hugging her pillow. When the others have their funeral, she reluctantly arrives and states that she blames herself for Shea's death. There are hugs. And then? Mr. Crimson arrives.
- Money: Files on all five of the labrats and Mr. Crimson. Supplemental materials. Mentions of Project Eclipse. Mercer's email.
- Us and Them: Duck pond. This time, Mr. Crimson brought friends. The old man holds off Mr. Crimson while the others fight off Quietus and run. Mr. Crimson recognizes the old man, but tells him that he can't die; he's protected by a prophecy. The old man tells him that prophecies are always a load of horseshit. The kids are about to be killed by Quietus, but time suddenly stops — they find the old man's truck with a note telling them to leave.
- Any Colour You Like: Flashback to Mr. Crimson's past, and how he received his curse/prophecy. In present-day, Mr. Crimson has survived his conflict with the old man, but is clearly injured; the old man's fate is left ambiguous. Mr. Crimson receives a call from someone, who informs him the labrats are on their way to the Philadelphia Public Library. The labrats arrive at a toll outside of Philadelphia, where the car breaks down. Rather than paying the toll, they give the keys to the attendant and move on foot.
- Brain Damage:
- Eclipse:
Here's where it starts: 3 AM in a Waffle House.
Adam Saxon sits alone in a booth with his complimentary glass of fluoridated tap-water. He pretends to read the laminated menu while observing the restaurant's six other patrons: an elderly couple snuggling in the corner. A trucker at the counter, devouring a steaming pile of eggs, bacon, and naked waffles. A trio of exhausted teens in ratty clothes. None spare Adam so much as a glance.
For this occasion, the retired intelligence officer wears his least conspicuous head: a blind man with sunglasses and a face wrapped in linen. Adam is particularly proud of the nose. He sets the menu down to quickly adjust it right as the door jingles.
Jeremiah August is a short, slender black man in a dark suit. His hair is trimmed down to a dense layer of short charcoal curls, and his face is full of piercings. Once he reaches Adam's booth, he removes his jacket and neatly folds it over an arm. He then gracefully slips into the seat across from the ex-agent who has called him here.
"Mr. Saxon, I presume." August speaks like a fencer. Each syllable is a jab; each pause, a feint.
Adam finishes tweaking his nose. "Yeah."
"Why did you call me?"
Adam leans back in his seat. The cushioning's plastic sleeve squeaks under him. "You're going to make me say it?"
"Humor me."
"I worked in the Foundation's counter-intelligence division for over twenty years, son. I know when I'm being tailed."
August lifts a pierced eyebrow.
"Really?" Adam feigns a sigh. "Fine." He gestures. "Elderly couple in the back. They're good. Too good. Nobody's that sweet on each other at this hour in a goddamn Waffle House. The trucker? Hasn't touched a thing besides his plate. No salt, no pepper. No butter, no syrup. Not even ketchup. I've yet to meet a night-hauler who doesn't drown his eggs in ketchup. And the teens? I look like I'm on my way to a casting call for The Invisible Man, and they haven't so much as snickered."
The eyebrow creeps higher.
Adam continues: "Not to mention that, for the past fifteen minutes, I've been pretending to read this menu — despite clearly looking blind. Waitress didn't even ask if I wanted one in braille. As for this water…" He nudges the glass toward August. "I'm guessing, what — some new experimental amnestic? Nano-tech, maybe. Something you think will work on me."
August looks at the glass, then back at Adam. He tilts his head.
"There's no ice," Adam explains. "They always add ice." He folds his arms across his chest. "So, yeah. That's why I called: to ask you straight to your face. What does the Foundation want with this old washed up field agent?"
August taps his lip-piercing against the front-row of his teeth, pondering. With a feline grace, he takes the glass, brings it up to his lips, tilts it back — and gulps it down. Once finished, he returns it to the table with a sharp clunk. Then, he plucks a paper napkin out of the nearby receptacle and dabs his mouth.
Adam stiffens. "Okay, so maybe I was reaching with the water, but —"
"Mr. Saxon." August folds the napkin and sets it down. Despite being the man's senior, Adam's chest constricts beneath the weight of that flat, merciless tone. "Are you familiar with the phrase, 'wilderness of mirrors'?"
He doesn't reply.
"Counter-intelligence officers are trained to recognize patterns and identify threats. Every shadow can hide a dagger; every smile, a plot — every cup, a dram of poison. In the world of espionage, perceiving agency behind seemingly random occurrences is what keeps you alive. But out here, in the wilderness? It's just paranoia."
"This isn't —"
"The elderly couple is just affectionate. The trucker just has terrible taste. The teenagers are just polite. And I doubt the waitress even cared enough to notice that you are pretending to be blind."
Adam leans back farther. His shoulders slump. "You mean that no one's —"
"Tailing you? No."
"So I just —"
"Called a senior Foundation official to a Waffle House in the middle of the night for no good reason? Yes."
"I — fuck. Jesus. Fuck." Adam wishes he could rub his temples, but the paper-mache is far too brittle to risk it. "Fuck."
Something that might resemble sympathy flickers over August's face. "I've reviewed your file, Mr. Saxon. Your performance was exemplary. Prior to your, ah, incident, you were a highly valuable asset. But now you're retired. This is a time for you to enjoy the fruits of —"
"I need to work."
That shred of sympathy gives way to an ocean of cold conviction. "Not an option."
"You said you reviewed my file. That means you know what I did — what I gave up — to keep working. To keep serving the Foundation."
August's lips pull into a thin, dark line. "On behalf of the Foundation, I commend you for your sacrifice. That being said, we cannot —"
Adam lunges over the table and seizes him by the collar. This motion is sufficient to dislodge the ring of glue around Adam's throat. The paper-mache bust wobbles over his neck like a life-sized bobblehead. "Fuck your commendations! I gave you fucks everything — and all I'm asking is a chance to go back to work!"
The elderly couple draw their service pistols from each other's holsters. The trucker pulls one out from under the counter. The three teens lift theirs over the table. The waitress kicks open the kitchen door, lifting her Benelli M4 semi-automatic shotgun — cocked and ready.
Seven fingers curl around seven triggers. Seven barrels aim for Aaron Saxon's heart.
No one speaks. No one moves. No one even breathes.
Adam's prosthetic head continues to wobble. Eventually, it bobs too far to one side, peeling free from the metal pedestal at his neck. It hits the floor with a whump, then dribbles away.
Site-Director Jeremiah August regards the space where the ex-agent's head used to be. Adam's neck ends with a flat metal cap. A 6-inch steel rod extends out from its center, with a small metal sphere at the top.
"Release me, Mr. Saxon."
The headless ex-agent lets go. He sinks back into his seat. "No tail, huh?"
August stands, straightens his collar, and gestures to the other patrons. They lower their weapons. August then follows the path of the linen-wrapped bust, halting its roll with the tip of a well-polished shoe. "As I said: no one has been tailing you. But when a retired Foundation field operative calls and demands a late-night meeting at a Waffle House, one is inclined to take precautions. Particularly when it's an operative with your reputation." He retrieves the prosthetic head, then returns it to Adam.
Adam reluctantly accepts it. He slides it back down on the rod, making some rough adjustments. The head no longer fits right. On top of that, he's pretty sure the nose is ruined. "Okay. I'm sorry. That was —"
"Perhaps we can find something for you to do," August interrupts him. "Nothing like your previous work, I'm afraid — we can't have you involved in anything sensitive. But if you just want something to keep your mind occupied —"
"Anything." Adam's voice quakes. "I'll take anything."
"Given your comprehensive knowledge of the Foundation's history, I think I know just the place for you, then." August retrieves his folded coat from the seat, slipping it back on. "Tell me, Mr. Saxon — what do you know about the Archival Division?"
Here's where it continues: Site-96's test chamber.
D-131413 ("Lucky" to his friends) sits at one end of a very long steel table. He's fidgeting with the sleeves of his bright orange coveralls while Dr. Taggart reviews the contents of his file. It's Lucky's monthly psych evaluation. Lucky hates his monthly psych evaluation.
Dr. Taggart pauses to scribble down some notes on a pad of paper, then nibbles on the tip of her pen. Her brows are crinkled in a tight, pensive knot. This is the first time Lucky has met her; his previous psychiatrist (Dr. Reiner) retired just last week.
She spends another half-minute writing. Finally, she sets her pen aside, folds her hands, and lifts her head. Lucky looks down and focuses on his fuzzy reflection in the polished steel surface.
"According to his notes, Dr. Reiner says you answer to 'Lucky'. May I call you that?"
"Oh, I mean — you can just call me Dee One Three One Four One Three." Lucky looks up and smiles. It's a little joke of his. It got a laugh out of Dr. Reiner when they first met. It even gets a chuckle from the other D-Class.
Dr. Taggart isn't chuckling, though. "Lucky, how long have you been a Foundation test-subject?"
Lucky shrugs. "As long as I can remember?"
"And you take all your amnestic treatments on schedule, right?"
Lucky makes a face. He and the other D-Class receive two tablets every Tuesday. They taste like toothpaste and melt on your tongue, coating it in a chalky slime that never quite goes away. On the plus side? Tuesday is pudding night. Lucky loves pudding. "Yes, ma'am."
"You don't have to call me —" Dr. Taggart stops, frowns, and scribbles something else down. "Do you know how old you are?"
"Dunno. Nineteen, maybe twenty? Hard to tell."
"Do you know why you're here?"
Where is this going? This is why he hates psych evaluations. Give him a weird anomaly to poke with a stick — he'll take that over this any day. "Foundation take test-subjects from prisons, yeah? So, I guess — I was a prisoner? Probably, like, a serial killer or something. Maybe I ate people." They watched Silence of the Lambs last Monday. Everybody cheered when Hannibal got away.
"You're saying you don't actually know."
Again, Lucky shrugs.
Dr. Taggart leans forward. Her brows crumple together again. "Lucky, I know amnestics don't work on you."
"Wh — what?" Anxiety flutters in his belly. "No, they work, uh, they work fine. I don't remember anything."
Dr. Taggart pulls a sheet out of the folder and slides it to him. It's a page of ruled paper filled with neat, dense handwriting. "This is Dr. Reiner's notes from a session dated a year ago. You mention that time your brain was swapped with another D-Class. That's SCP-291 — you were amnesticized after testing."
"I mean, amnestics aren't always perfect, sure, but —"
Another sheet of paper. "Three sessions after that, you mention 'magic pills' that can cure a hang-over. SCP-500 — again, you were amnesticized after testing."
"That could just be a coincidence —"
Another sheet of paper. "Last week, a security guard overheard you bragging in the cafeteria to another D-Class about having read a book that explains how to 'perform rhinoplasty with your bare hands'. I checked the records: They hit you and everyone else on that assignment with enough amnestics to wipe out basic language skills."
Lucky slumps in his chair. "I… got better?"
"I reviewed your mental and behavioral evaluations, in addition to your medical history. Besides being a model prisoner, you exhibit no sign of prolonged amnestic usage — in fact, you persistently score high marks in short and long term memory. You have a very rare condition: complete amnestic immunity. Furthermore, you've been hiding it from us since you got here."
Lucky slumps deeper. So much for pudding night.
"Lucky, do you understand what it means if we can't amnesticize you?"
"It means… I'm in trouble?"
"What?" Dr. Taggart's expression shifts from bewilderment to concern. "No. It means you remember things not even I'm cleared to recall."
"Oh." He thinks this over for a moment. "So… does that mean I can go back to my cell, now?"
Dr. Taggart mops her forehead with both hands. "You're not getting it, Lucky. We can't amnesticize you. That makes you a walking InfoSec nightmare. You can't have contact with any classified data. We can't even use you to test anomalies."
"You're —" The low-key anxiety he's been feeling becomes a cold, hard knot of dread. It lurches out of his stomach and slams into his chest, squeezing. "You're firing me?!"
"Lucky, we're —"
"You can't fire me!" He throws both arms out around the table, clinging. His eyes are as wide as saucers. "Doctor — Please! This is — this is the only thing I've ever been any good at!"
"Calm down, we're —"
"I don't know how to do anything else! I don't know how to change a tire, or update a Face Book! I don't even know what a Face Book is! I — I can't even tie my own shoes!"
"We are not firing you!"
Lucky's panic reaches its zenith. In that instant, he is positive she's lying. He's going to be fired. He's going to be the first D-Class who was so bad at his job that they fired him. No more late-night snacks snuck out of the cafeteria — no more freshly turned linen beds. No more Movie Night, or rounds of 'What SCP Killed Me' with his friends. No more being told precisely what to do and when to do it. And certainly no more pudding.
"No one's firing you, Lucky. Breathe…"
He feels dizzy, his heart pounding in his ears. He can't stop gasping. Lucky's heard the stories from other D-Class — stories about the terrifying world just outside of Site-96's comforting walls. A world with speeding automobiles, incomprehensible raging forest fires, and wide open skies. A world where people expect things from you. A world where you're supposed to have opinions. A world where you have to make your own bed, buy food with your own 'bitcoin' (whatever that is), and — yes — even tie your own shoes.
"Close your eyes. Count backwards. Just like Dr. Reiner taught you."
Lucky closes his eyes. His knees are tucked up against his chest, with both arms wrapped around them. He's rocking back and forth. Silently, he counts back from ten.
Lucky opens his eyes. He's safe in the test chamber. The concrete above protects him from that horrible, horrible open sky. "S — sorry, ma'am." Still dizzy, heart still pounding. At least he's no longer hyperventilating.
Dr. Taggart looks incredulous. "You don't know how to tie your own shoes."
Lucky reluctantly lifts his foot. "Velcro."
"Ah."
"You said… I'm not being fired?"
"No. You're being re-assigned," Dr. Taggart explains. "We had to find a place where you have no risk of encountering or leaking anything classified. Somewhere quiet, safe, and most of all, unimportant. It took some looking, but I think we found the perfect spot."
She takes a breath.
"Lucky, have you ever heard of the Archival Division?"
Here's where it keeps going: a bedroom in a haunted house.
The mattress is bare. Lewd phrases and crude, vulgar drawings cover the walls. The floor is littered with crushed beer cans, discarded clothing, and ripped magazines. An overturned desk is propped up in the corner.
Yara Toma is a petite, brown woman with a head shaved down to peach-fuzz. Her dark sienna skin contrasts sharply with the bright pastel blue of her loose-cut kurta top and paijama bottoms. She clears a small space in the room's center to lay down her mat, then arranges ten scented candles into a pentagram (five for the outer points, five for the inner). After determining the current orientation of Neptune, Yara turns to face it. She sits, lights the candles, sets a crowbar in her lap, closes her eyes — and waits.
A dark wetness seeps down from where the ceiling meets the walls. The room creaks.
out….
Yara Toma waits.
The wetness reaches the floor. All four walls are now stained a deep, black crimson. The graffiti has all but disappeared. Ceiling tiles sag, swelling beneath a building pressure.
get… out…
Still, Yara Toma waits.
Threads of moisture trickle from the center of several tiles. Black-crimson flows down and splashes on the hardwood floor — though not a drop lands on Yara. The walls undulate; bulging shapes crawl beneath their surface.
Get out…!
Still, Yara Toma waits.
One tile splits. A mass of glistening viscera surges down and splats on the bed. A female figure descends, head-first. Her eyes are jet-black, with skin as white as pearl. As she descends, her mouth opens wider and wider. She makes a low, creaking throat-noise.
Get out… of my… ROOOOOOOOOOOM—
Yara Toma stands, spins, and swings the crowbar with all the force a 115 pound woman can muster. It connects with a solid CRACK, knocking the girl right out of the air and back to the mattress.
"FUCK!"
The room snaps back to its previous state. No blood, no sagging tiles — and a litany of dicks scrawled across the walls. The girl is a life-sized doll with pale, silicon skin.
Yara Toma drops the crowbar. "Chelsea?"
"Shit! What is wrong with people, you're supposed to run from shit like that!"
The doll has seen better days. Her clothing is in tatters — a torn and faded pink halter-top, a ripped knee-length skirt, and two completely different high-heels (one of which has been recently fixed with duct-tape). Her 'skin' is covered in numerous ad hoc repairs, including a single rainbow stocking stretched up and stapled in place to cover a large gash in her silicon thigh. Yara's crowbar caved in the left side of her face, forcing one of the glass eyes to pop out. Chelsea is frantically searching the mattress for it.
"Chelsea, what's going on?" Yara frowns and joins the search. It doesn't take her long to locate it under the bed. She plucks the eye up and offers it back to Chelsea. "You're supposed to be in containment, sweetie."
Chelsea snatches the eye back and jams it into the gaping hole. It immediately rolls out of her cracked and deformed socket, clicking to the floor. "Fucking, just fucking great, now it's — it's —"
"Talk to me. Why are you haunting, again?" Yara takes a seat next to her on the mattress. Her nose scrunches up as she looks the life-sized doll over more closely. "And why are you possessing that?"
The doll goes limp and slides off the bed, hitting the floor with a thwunk. In its place sits the hazy, translucent outline of a humanoid cloud. In life, Chelsea was a fiercely independent teenager. In death? She's just an angry, indistinct blur of ectoplasmic vapor.
"It's all I could find." The cloud shrinks inward. "Why?"
"Relax. Just, tell me what happened, okay?" The job of a Foundation esoteric containment specialist is often surreal. One day, you might be working on the ad campaign for a new flavor of Super Coco Powstm brand cereal. The next? You're comforting the ghost of a teenage runaway.
"I couldn't stay there anymore. God, Yara, do you have any idea how many people died in that place? And they're all so angry and scared."
"Okay. I can get you assigned to a new site. A place where no one has died violently, or —"
The cloud swells. Tiny sparks of lightning crackle through it, producing small pops of thunder. "No! I don't want that. I don't want to go back into a cell. I don't want to be contained, anymore. They won't even let me have a body, or talk to anyone. They just want me to do more fucking tests."
Yara bites into her lip. Her Foundation training tells her that containment is her first priority, but Chelsea is a tricky case. The girl's a Class V apparition. Stopping her from going where she pleases is, well — nearly impossible. On top of that? Yara actually likes her.
She reaches out to touch where Chelsea's hand would be if the girl still had a physical form.
"Okay. I've got an idea," she tells her. "What if we gave you a job? Like, an internship. Some place you could work and socialize. Talk to people, do stuff — and meanwhile, I'll work on getting you a new body."
The lightning subsides. The cloud grows a little calmer. "No tests?"
"No tests."
Chelsea says nothing, for a while. Then, very quietly:
"Can I keep this body until you find me a new one?"
Yara looks down at the doll, then back to Chelsea. She frowns. "I don't think you want this one."
"Why not? I didn't steal it. I found it in a dumpster. It's not —"
"Sweetie, this is a real-doll."
Chelsea shrinks and expands in rapid convulsions, firing off several pops of agitated thunder. The cloud sinks into Yara; she feels a dampness against the front of her top and over her shoulders. The dampness soon spreads to the mattress and floor. It isn't until Chelsea speaks that Yara realizes what's happening: the teenager is trying to hug her.
"God," she says, her voice choked with a sob. "Oh, God. Fucking — fuck. Fuck. Fine. I don't care. Where am I going?"
Yara tries her best to hug the amorphous cloud back. "I have some friends down in the Archival Division."
And here's where it ends — the same place it always does: the Archival Division.
Sometimes, it's a little thing that gets you. Consider the curious case of Amanda Tuller:
By 1944, the Allies dominated the air. Not even Nazi Germany's top pilots could stop British bombers from dumping over 2,000 tons of munitions into the heart of Berlin. But the Luftwaffe had one last ace up their sleeve — the Messerschmitt Me 262 Sturmvogel.
As the first fighter jet, the Sturmvogel enjoyed unparalleled success… when it got off the ground. Despite a dispersed production line that used slave labor to cut costs, Germany could not build them faster than the Allies could bomb them. The Luftwaffe were desperate for a solution.
Enter Obskurakorps: A subgroup of Ahnenerbe (a pseudo-scientific cult that provided ex postfacto justifications for Nazi atrocities and their doctrine of racial superiority), Obskurakorps was a loose confederation of fraudsters, crackpots, and German blue-bloods who spent most their time trying to convince themselves that they were Nordic wizards. Together, they formed a syncretic fusion of misapplied thaumaturgy, misunderstood theology, and misappropriated mythology. Once in a while? They even managed to accidentally cast a spell.
At the Luftwaffe's request, that's precisely what they did. Aristocrats and con-men gathered in hushed circles to hum over crystals, consult star-charts, and draw sigils of power in their own excrement.
And to everyone's astonishment, it actually worked.
Germany's largest underground Sturmvogel production facility — along with all its workers, officers, and several hundred Ukrainian slaves — popped out of existence. It was now contained in an extradimensional space far beyond the reach of Allied bombers.
It turned out Allied bombers weren't the only ones who couldn't reach it. The Luftwaffe asked Obskurakorps to bring the facility back; they revealed that they could not. Once all parties realized what this meant, Luftwaffe officials were horrified. They swiftly covered their tracks. Lies were told, bomb reports forged, and the European theater continued on — until Hitler's day of reckoning in a bunker below Berlin.
Several decades later, an American by the name of Amanda Tuller was practicing the "Human Blockhead" act (a stage-trick which involves the insertion of a nail into one's own nasal cavity). After 'hammering' a 4 centimeter long galvanized nail into her nose, her hand slipped and the nail slid in. It vanished — never to be seen again.
She soon complained of a horrible stench, which was followed by recurring bouts of pneumonia. Endoscopic examinations of her nasal cavity revealed the source: it now contained an enormous extradimensional space. Deeper endoscopic surveys found an immense underground bunker filled with nearly a thousand rotting corpses and several hundred unfinished Messerschmitt Me 262 airframes.
An amateur stage magician achieved by accident what over a dozen Nazi "occultists" couldn't even do on purpose: Amanda Tuller had recovered the underground Sturmvogel production facility.
The extradimensional Nazi mass war grave inside of Ms. Tuller's nasal cavity was probed, explored, and studied for two decades before she passed away from an unrelated case of lymphatic cancer. Every inch was examined and cataloged. Many Foundation researchers built their careers on documenting that nose. Its discovery provided invaluable insight into the properties of spatial anomalies — insights relied on to this very day.
And that's the end of that. Right?
Wrong.
Because there's one little thing that gets you. One piece of the puzzle that doesn't quite fit. One question you still need to ask:
Where the fuck did the nail go?
< Site-17 Attack? Or Nail chunk? >
[ TITLE CARD: WHAT IS THE ARCHIVAL DIVISION? (Published by the Foundation Department for Internal Information; 1951 ®) ]
[ SCENE: Black-and-white wide-shot of the PROFESSOR, wearing his trademark lab-coat and stethoscope. He stands at his work station, holding a pipe in one hand and a test-tube in the other. He's examining this test-tube very closely. ]
D-010: Professor! Professor!
[ D-010 enters the scene. He is a 10-year-old boy in brightly colored coveralls. He is distraught. ]
PROFESSOR: What is it, Dee-Ten?
D-010: It's Jazzy — come quick!
[ The PROFESSOR sets the test tube down and follows D-010. They both exit right. ]
[ SCENE: D-010's cell is a small concrete chamber with bunk-beds and a toilet. There is a small bundle of clothing on the right side, where a feline is curled up. The feline has no head. ]
D-010: I think she's sick, Professor.
[ The PROFESSOR approaches JAZZY. He crouches down next to her, then uses his stethoscope to take her pulse. The headless feline stirs, tail swiping from left to right. She then becomes very still. ]
[ The PROFESSOR stands, puffing his pipe. ]
PROFESSOR: Hmm.
D-010: Is — is she gonna be okay, Professor?
[ The PROFESSOR turns to D-010. He puts his hand on the boy's shoulder. ]
PROFESSOR: I think we might need to contact the Archival Division.
D-010: The Archival Division? What's that?
[ The PROFESSOR ruffles D-010's hair and continues to puff his pipe. ]
PROFESSOR: That's an excellent question, Dee-Ten. But to answer it, we need to start at the beginning.
[ SCENE: Two scientists in a laboratory take notes as they examine another man's coat. Several arms emerge from the coat's sleeves — including that of a young lady, an ape, and a squid. ]
PROFESSOR: (voice-over) The Foundation is history's largest and most comprehensive paranormal research institute.
[ SCENE: A large, burly sasquatch sits in a cage, examining a small blackboard with an unsolved chemical equation scribbled on it. The same two scientists watch. ]
[ The sasquatch lifts its hand. The blackboard floats off the floor; a piece of chalk rises with it, adding to the equation. The solution is a dilution of 1 part hydrogen over 106 parts water. ]
PROFESSOR: (voice-over) We've established ourselves as world leaders in multiple fields of parascience — including cryptozoology, psychotronics, and homeopathy.
[ SCENE: An immense archive, with row after row of files neatly organized atop of sliding shelves. These shelves extend as far back as the eye can see; they number in the thousands.]
PROFESSOR: (voice-over) But did you know that we also produce more paperwork than every academic, business, and government organization — combined?
[ SCENE: We're back in the PROFESSOR's laboratory. D-010 is cradling the headless JAZZY in a bundle of cloth against his chest; the PROFESSOR is sitting atop his desk, smoking his pipe. ]
PROFESSOR: Every time an anomaly is neutralized, the original documentation must be archived, declassified — and the slot freed up to make room for a new anomaly.
D-010: Slot?
PROFESSOR: That's right, Dee-Ten. Every anomaly receives a 3-digit 'designation slot'.
D-010: Just like me and the other D-Class!
PROFESSOR: Precisely.
D-010: But… can't we just give new anomalies new numbers? Why do they need Jazzy's number?
[ The PROFESSOR laughs. ]
PROFESSOR: Oh, Dee-Ten… we'd run out of 3-digit slots pretty quickly if we did that. And don't you want to make room for a new anomalous friend? I'm sure that's what Jazzy would have wanted.
[ D-010 frowns and looks down at JAZZY, then nods. ]
D-010: But how will you find room to store everything we've learned about Jazzy, Professor? There must be so much!
PROFESSOR: I'm glad you asked, Dee-Ten. Let me show you something.
[ The PROFESSOR steps forward and holds out his hand. In his palm is a small roll of film. ]
PROFESSOR: This little marvel right here? It's called 'microfilm'. In my hand, I'm holding over three hundred pages of research — enough to fit almost a quarter of War and Peace.
D-010: That sure is a lot of homework!
PROFESSOR: That's right, Dee-Ten. This is what the Archival Division does — they convert our paper documents, then store them for posterity. Everything about Jazzy can be contained in a compressed space. Instead of six hundred thousand pages of documentation, we'll only need 2,000 rolls of negatives!
D-010: Oh, wow. Oh — P-Professor!
[ D-010 straightens, lifting the bundle of cloth up to the PROFESSOR excitedly. ]
D-010: Look — I think — I think Jazzy was having kittens!
[ The PROFESSOR leans in and examines the bundle of cloth. Mewing sounds are heard. His eyebrows lift, and he looks to the camera with a smile. ]
PROFESSOR: Well then, Dee-Ten… it looks like we'll be filling Jazzy's slot sooner than I thought!
[ The mewing intensifies. The PROFESSOR and D-010 laugh. ]
[ End credits. ]
The film projector rattles; the reel slaps its tail-end against steel. For a while, it's the only sound in the room:
Slap. Slap. Slap.
Then, at last:
"You've got to be fucking with me." Adam Saxon turns the projector off. For this occasion, the ex-agent is wearing a well-cut gray suit and tie. His current head is one he stole from a mannequin. It looks about as disquieting as it sounds.
"What the hell is microfilm?" This question comes from Chelsea, a teenage ghost inhabiting another (entire) mannequin. She manages to pull it off better than Adam — probably because she can actually move her eyes and mouth. She's dressed in a cute little black dress with a pink ribbon taped to her plastic hair.
"It's a data format. You take pictures of a document, then save the negatives." This is Lucky, otherwise known as D-131413. He is a cheerfully non-anomalous young man in orange coveralls. Unlike the other two, he watched the film quite intently. He even took notes. "Though, I think, uh…"
"The Foundation switched over to a digital format in the 80s," Adam says. He rubs his plastic forehead (more out of habit than anything). "We haven't even touched microfilm for half a century."
These three are the Archival Division's latest members: Adam Saxon, a paranoid washed up spy who literally lost his head. Chelsea Monroe, a teenage ghost who builds her bodies out of trash. And Lucky, a D-Class who can't even tie his own shoes.